


Remains of the Day

by adhesiveKelpie



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, F/F, Humanstuck, but not necessarily in any sort of historical context as far as that goes, not particularly medieval, sort of a human alternia perhaps
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-19
Updated: 2012-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-05 15:40:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adhesiveKelpie/pseuds/adhesiveKelpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It had been twenty years since the heiress Feferi had been born and for twenty year she had been caged away for safe keeping, being preened and primped for her ascension to the throne. Now with the arrival of an odd and infamous stranger, Feferis duties as empress-to-be are pushed to their limits." <br/>A humanstuck fantasy AU about lesbians who kiss. Magic will ensue</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Newcomer

**Author's Note:**

> Let's pretend I know what I'm doing.

The dark of pre-dawn was fading quickly as the sun rose from below the ocean horizon. Fog clung to the ground, not yet wanting to leave as first light peaked from beyond the vast expanse of salt water. The air was chilly, but no surprise for the area even in summer, and frost peppered the rough coastal ground. A thin womans footsteps crunched on the frozen grass, her once fanciful garments torn and muddied, fine and foreign textiles unrecognizable as dried salt and sand clung to them. At her waist hung a rapier, the hilts guard twisted and sculpted to resemble a spider. Small stones were incrusted into its body and eyes.

She had been walking most of the night, the cold biting at bare skin and wind tossing her already matted hair. But now, as the sun rose with each step, she could faintly make out the distinct outline of a keep. It’s high towers shot into the sky, oddly contrasting the flat expanse of land around it. It didn’t take long for the strange woman to arrive on the outskirts of the village that resided outside of the castles walls. The place was just starting to bustle with the early morning duties of women and men. A child carrying a pail skittered in front of her, almost barreling her over. The older woman hissed, and the child just stared with wide eyes as she continued on her way. Others avoided her all together, mothers pulling their children inside small homes as the ragged stranger passed. 

The high walls of the stronghold stood thirty, maybe forty, feet into the air. It was considerably smaller than some of the palaces the stranger had seen. Pikes protruded from above the main gate sporting the heads of men and women. Some were unrecognizable. Though this didn’t faze her, a certain amount of worry couldn’t help but creep its way up her spine. And as far as she was concerned, the place was no seaport hub in the slightest bit. This made it safer. Relived by this realization, she turned only to be confronted by an armed guard group. Her heart sunk, and she reached for her rapier. It was too late. 

The men grabbed her by the hair, pulling her down to her knees before taking her sword and binding her wrists. She started to protest, but one man hit her across the cheek, quickly telling her to shut her trap.

“Who are you, foreigner?” The oldest one asked. He was tall and his face was pockmarked, accent thick. The woman on her knees scowled, lip curling upwards. Her wrist stung from the bindings, but she was impervious to such little pain. Pockface kicked her. She sputtered, mouth dry from saltwater. “Not speaking, brat? Pick ‘er up boys. The heiress will want to see this. Ain’t been a stranger like this ‘ere since las’ winter.”

Tugging roughly, a man hauled her to her feet, pushing her forward to follow Pockface through the high gates of the keep. People around them stared before returning to their work. The captive rolled her eyes. She could have struggled against them, gotten kicked and hit some more, but she restrained herself. After her travels, it was unlikely she would be able to hold them off even if she had her sword. Maybe if she was lucky, this so called heiress would kind, but from the sight of those rotting heads, things didn’t look so good.

Gates closed them into the keep. It was quiet there, save for the wicker of horses as a stable boy passed with hay. A small old woman was opening her shop doors, sweeping dirt from the entrance. Milk maids, messengers, and other futile workers scuttled about the large cobblestone courtyard. She couldn’t stop to gaze at the domestic work. Just seeing it all made her heart pang, memories of what she had lost that night still thick and painful. These people had something. She, on the other hand, had nothing but her sword. Shouldering past her problems, she speed up to the guard she was following as he entered the barracks. He spoke quietly to one of the men in there, who nodded in response. 

Up a flight of stone steps and into a corridor things started to look much more decorated, definitely not some low born lord with a small hold. This was even more pronounced when the guards and prisoner entered the hall of whoever ruled. The hall was huge. Stone walls were decorated with elaborate tapestries, depicting sea life rather than battles and raids. At the front of the hall sat a throne decorated with purple and pink throws along with animal hides. It was lit dimly, but the hearth that sat in the middle gave off a low glow from its embers. Feeble rays of morning sun filtered in from the opening set overhead and the windows that lined to stone walls, allowing smoke to exit and the light to splash upon the long table before the hearth. 

In the middle of this table sat a young woman, wild red hair flowing from under the small golden crown atop her head. It was bejeweled with purple stones and practically stunk of royalty. She looked up at the group, face contorted in slight confusion. Her face was round and her skin was fair save for the light freckles that dappled her low cheekbones. She had deep set green eyes and her nose was straight and only turned upwards very slightly at its end. Below were her lips, downturned at the corners but full. She was royalty all right with a face that lovely and the woman in bindings swallowed. This was not what she had planned. 

The redhead stood, her curvy body clothed in very casual garb though it was obviously silk from the way it moved. She looked uncomfortable as she moved around the table, approaching the guards. A couple of her handmaidens tittered nervously behind her and another handed the woman a long golden trident. Shooting them a glare, they stopped following her and took their seats again, worried eyes on their lady. 

She paused in front of the guards and the other woman. Surely such a small woman would only wield such a weapon for show? The bound woman could only think that it was for decoration, but the way her arms moved so fluidly with it was a sure sign she was at least not new to holding the odd weapon. 

She spoke, eying the guards and the woman below her who had been forced to kneel as she approached. Their eyes met. The foreigner grinned.

Battered and bruised and dirtied, the woman on her knees was almost a blinding difference from the high born lady. Her face was sharp and angular, her nose arched somewhat and was crooked from a break. Her lips were thin and chapped from salt and cold air and her skin was the color of mocha under all of the grime. Her hair, on the other hand, was a complete wreck. A black tangle of mess with small things resided in it, such as some seaweed and what appeared to be a small fish.

“Guards, leave. Not you Morage. You will stay. But the rest of you have best leave before I impale you,” the redhead said, not joking. They bowed deeply, all of their faces stark white. She called after them, “Next time, do not hit a woman, whoever she might be!” Her eyes flickered to the remaining guard, but she said nothing but, “Unbind her, Morage.”  
He did so with care and stepped back slowly, hand on the hilt of his sword. The black haired woman stood, rubbing her wrists but did not move far. 

“Where’d you find her?” the lady asked, green eyes on the stocky guard. 

“Oh, ay uh, she was loiterin’ ‘round the town, yer Grace. Didn’t look like she was, uh… Quite right. What woman comes a stridin’ inta town in the wee hours o’ the morn? She’s probably another assassin.” He tried to smile, but his scared face made it seem more like a grimace. Green eyes bore into him.

“So you apprehended a woman walking outside my gates?” she questioned, voice thin and frustrated. 

“Yes, yer Grace. But as I was sayin’, she might be a-”

“Leave!” she shouted, swinging her trident to point at him. “And give me that sword! No way in hell is it yours.” Tossing her the sword, the redhead caught it with ease before her guard bowed and practically ran from the hall. She let her trident down slowly until it tapped the stone floor. She turned green eyes on the dark woman. She smiled a large smile and the other womans grin flickered in uncertainty. “My name is Feferi Peixes. Welcome to my keep.” Her name sounded familiar to the other woman.

Tucking her tangled black hair behind her ear, she stared right back at Feferi. Something in the back of her mind mumbled a warning, but it was muffled. This wasn’t a regular high born woman by the way her subjects acted, by the way she held herself like some sort of divine entity. She knew she couldn’t tell the woman her true title. It would be death to do so.

“Thank you, your Grace,” she said, voice thick with her own accent. She did not bow or curtsy. A red brow rose.

“A southerner? Where are you from?” Feferi asked, passing the rapier to one of her handmaidens 

“The south,” she said, watching her sword leave her eyesight. “They call me Vriska.”

Feferi grinned at her remark, and turned on her heal. Her movements still looked stiff and uncomfortable. “Come, Vriska. Though you refuse to indulge me on who you are, exactly, the least I can do is attend to your current state.”


	2. Hospitality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladies.

 Feferi had led them all to a large high vaulted room, Vriska and the handmaidens following quickly. The ceilings were of marble and the walls of elaborate mosaics depicting sea life. It was a private bath house, Vriska realized. Not far off from the center was a pool inlaid on the floor, water steaming from its surface as a few servants skittered away with large water buckets. Nose scrunching upwards, she was confused. What was she doing here, anyways? A royal woman bringing her into a bath house was absurd.  
  
“Ow!” spat Vriska. One of the servants had brushed over an injury in her confusion. Before she could swat the oncoming servants, Feferi sat in a large chair not far from the pool, handmaidens trailing her and attending her like chicks to a mother hen. One took the royals trident and placed it not far away. They then sat around her on the floor, their pale, simple dresses tucked around them.  
  
“Don’t you dare think of it, miss. They’re helping you, so do us all a favor and stand still,” the heiress said nonchalantly. Vriska knew she was talking about hitting the servants that were now removing her ripped and sandy clothes. She didn’t cover herself in modesty when the last piece was removed, but stood there unhappy and glaring at the red haired woman.  
  
“Just what do you think you’re doing, bringing me here?” Vriska asked, purposely forgetting formal titles as a maid pushing her towards the scented water of the bath. Vriska pressed her heals down stubbornly, waiting for an answer from the highborn. The servant poked in one of the gashed on her side and she stumbled forward, unable to stop herself from stepping clumsily into the too hot water. Vriska hissed at the retreating girl, now waist deep in the water. “You could have just let me be and I would have been on my way after a meal. As you can see, I’m just a pes-“  
  
“Please,” drawled Peixes, “Don’t even call yourself a peasant. It’s _obvious_ you aren’t.” She looked down her nose at Vriska, one red brow raised in amusement. _Obnoxious,_ thought Vriska. “Your sword, dear.”  
  
“ ‘Stole it,” Vriska said gruffly, easing down into the water ruefully. She could see dirt and sand and blood already coming off her skin. What she said hadn’t been a lie, but it wasn’t really the full truth. She wasn’t quite low born, but being the bastard child of a bastard woman might as well be close enough for her.  
  
“That may be so, but that doesn’t explain your clothes. Not one piece of those shreds was made of anything but silk. Even my servants can see that.”  
  
“I was a whore for a high lord, _milady_ ,” she responded with an even tone, sinking lower into the water so that her nose was just above its scented self. The gashes on the sides stung.  
  
“A whore who wore mens clothing? You’re lying.” countered Feferi as she stood and strode over the almost submerged guest. Blue eyes stared passively up at green.  
  
 “So-Feferi, was it?- yeah, what exactly are you the heiress to?”  
 Feferis eyes widened for a moment, but she calmed herself and turned back, strolling to one of the single pained windows that looked over the ocean. It was closer to the keep than Vriska had though. The first chance she had she would see if they had ship harbor.  
  
The heiress still moved uncomfortably, strides stiff though smooth. Her face did not show pain. _Perhaps she has a gimp leg,_ Vriska mused. Picking up one of the sea sponges a servant had set near her, Vriska started to rub the dirt and grime from her body a little roughly. The water was still too hot for her ease and it was starting to turn foggy from dirt and salt and blood from her injuries. There was an extended amount of silence that followed them and Feferi did not move until her guest had dragged herself from the hot water.  
  
Wrapped in a large bath robe, one of the servants sat her down and oiled her hair and carefully combing it out. Bits of seaweed and other items were fished from the ratty mess. All the while Feferi watched her with careful eyes, Vriska hissing and swearing at the woman who combed her hair.  
  
 It was so unlike herself to be quite and submissive, Vriska realized. Perchance it was because she was tiered, worn from fighting waves and walking. She sighed wistfully and rubbed her eyes and felt the maid leave her side.  
  
“You are not going to tell me who you are, correct?” Feferi inquired in the silence.  
  
 “No. I’m not,” was the raven haired woman’s response as she sat cross-legged on the stone floor, hands absent mindedly combing through her shoulder blade length hair. Feferi dropped into her chair with a huff and crossed her ankles. She flicked a hand towards one of the servants.  
  
 “Get the lady some clothes. Use mine own, if you must,” ordered the highborn woman, fingers lacing together in her lap. Vriska assumed the most of how she was acting was an act itself. No proper woman would invite a battered stranger to bathe and rest. She would have sent her to the kitchens for food and to the local physician and that would have been it.  
  
 The girls eyes were much too bright to be as stern as she was being. And the fact that she was there now, sitting sleepily on the floor of a bath house, only told Vriska that there was something much more different about this royal than any other she had met. Vriska was being trusted to be near a woman of a much higher standing than herself. There were no guards save for the one who stood outside the door and the handmaidens that tittered around the red head were as useless as torn sails. But the highborn herself was another matter. Now that she was closer, Vriska could see strong arms and legs and equally strong abdominals under exotic silks. She was no weakling lady, all soft like a child. Perhaps she wasn’t as high born as was first though. Maybe she had been a whore or a worker, hardened by her profession and had just happened to woo her local liege lord? However unlikely that might have been, Vriska knew she could not trust her. Even behind the façade of stern royalty, there was no telling what this so called heiress was capable off.  
  
 She was starting to drift off, eyelids drooping. She was nervous though, worried that something would happen to her if she were to sleep but…. The heat of the bath had made her more aware of how tiered she was. Exhausted and unable to fight the drowsiness, Vriska tipped onto her side, head pillowed by her now soft, wavy hair and the fluffy hood of the bathrobe. She didn’t notice the red stains that dotted the robe or that Feferi had walked over to her and kneeled, pushed aside the cloth and placed her cold hands on Vriskas injuries. A hot and uncomfortable tingling spread over her rib cage, but Vriska did not rise.  
  
 Her eyes fluttered open only as the cool hands on her body passed over the largest of the wounds. “What are you doing?” Vriska muttered, trying to roll away. Strong hands held her down. She frowned. She could just see Feferis face behind the hair that had fallen into hers. It was strained, lips curled over white teeth and brows knit together. “I said, what are you-,” before she could finish speaking, Vriskas body gave a spasm under a wave of white hot pain and spread over her side and under her skin. Her mouth opened in a silent scream of pain and then she was asleep, eyes rolling backwards and mind going blank.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fef you slimy bastard! How dare you take advantage of a wounded miscreant.

**Author's Note:**

> If there are any errors in grammar, spelling, ect., feel free to correct me and I will make the changes as soon as possible.


End file.
